


The pharaoh and the alpine flower

by GucciRhymesWithDucky



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Flower Maiden Dynamics, Healing Sex, Mating Cycles/In Heat, PWP, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:54:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22413553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GucciRhymesWithDucky/pseuds/GucciRhymesWithDucky
Summary: Cutting-edge medicine and hormone therapy—Angela's own hardest efforts—could delay the blooming cycle. But she could give herself no treatment that would relieve a bloom upon its onset. For that, she needed other hands than her own.
Relationships: Ana Amari/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Kudos: 13





	The pharaoh and the alpine flower

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck me I love me some flower maiden shit! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ For "100 words of non-A/B/O heat sex," which there deserves to be more of in the world.

Angela was sprawled on the bed, not listening for the chirp of the door when it opened, but Captain Amari's voice pierced her fog loud and clear. "I appreciate your patience with me. I came as soon as I had leave to." Of course Captain Amari's skills and resources were highly demanded in Overwatch. Time to see to the needs of one flower maiden must be a trial to scrape out, every second precious. In a way Angela was glad this would be quick.

Angela propped herself up on her elbows, bouncing one thigh against the other, the insides coated in sweat and slick. She was dehydrated and losing water still. Her temperature was 38.2 degrees Celsius at last record. Her last recorded heart rate was 168 beats per minute, her resting systolic blood pressure 175. She couldn't recall precisely _when_ she'd last recorded her vitals—how long ago she had secluded herself here.

The signs of her bloom's onset—the sweatiness of her palms; the shortness of her breath; the blurt of dampness in her underwear; the green, floral stench that, with the ache in her groin, built and built and _built_ —had shaken her, after so long. (To think that she had nearly forgotten the shame of what it was to be a flower maiden.) She excused herself from her infirmary and hid away to await Captain Amari—how many hours ago? Days?—it could not have been days, she would not still be alive. It felt like decades. Millennia spent panting and groping herself and burning. Praying the Captain would not be greeted by a corpse still burning hot. (What were the needs of one flower maiden?)

Angela could smell her—a muted, soapy clean. Captain Amari always smelled so clean. Faintly of some spicy wood and of black tea. A soft scent knifing through the herbaceous reek of her blooming. "Th-thank you, Captain. I appreci—" Her tongue was too dry for words. She swallowed and her throat felt like chalk on bark. Her fingers clenched in the stiff sheets. "I up—ah—"

"Enough." Captain Amari was at her side, her coat thrown to the floor without decorum, gloves discarded—her bare fingers a balm to Angela's burning lips. "Your strength is limited. Don't waste it on formalities." Angela welcomed the Captain's fingertips into her mouth, tasting bitterness, salt, the impression of metal. Captain Amari let Angela suck without a twitch of her lips, nor her hard eyes.

Cutting-edge medicine and hormone therapy—Angela's own hardest efforts—could delay the blooming cycle. But she could give herself no treatment that would relieve a bloom upon its onset. For that, she needed other hands than her own. (Her own, however hard she fucked herself on her fingers, would only make things worse.) Angela needed a woman's hands. Strong hands, deft hands. Captain Amari's hands.

The Captain pulled her fingers from Angela's mouth; Angela's lips pursed after them. Her throat was too dry to cry for more. But the Captain would make this quick. She always did.

"Lay back, Angela." She did not need to command Angela to spread her legs; Angela did it unbidden. Captain Amari climbed over her. The ceiling lights haloed her silhouette. Her fingers—so slender and so hard—reached down, worked apart Angela's soaking labia. So steady and so purposeful as Angela rolled her pelvis into their touch.

She was a parched woman who had been granted but a sip of the water that would revive her. The Captain's fingers stroking the depth of her cunt were relief, blessed relief—Captain Amari could make her come just like this, had done thus a dozen times, and that would be relief from the bloom—but God help her, she thirsted still for more. Skin to skin—sweat—saliva, even—shared fluids her only anesthetic. "Capt—" Her fingers scrambled at the clasps holding Captain Amari's bodysuit in place—needing her body, needing to feel the Captain's breasts against hers. Making no headway. " _B-bitte—_ " How useless her hands, that they could not even do this.

This was what it took to make Angela howl: the Captain taking her fingers back with one slick movement. She clamped Angela's wrists—her sturdy arms pushed Angela's prying hands back to herself. But the scent of tea intensified as she closed in. She tasted, too, of tea, when they kissed.

Shivers crawled down Angela's nape. She sucked on the Captain's lower lip—and she tried to snare her with her teeth as she sensed the Captain about to pull back. No, it was not enough to keep her there. Trust Captain Amari to keep it brisk. She always did.

"That's enough, Angela. Keep your wits about you," she said. "For us both."

Captain Amari slid her fingers back inside, and a full-body shiver clutched Angela. As she hooked a third in, Angela clenched around her. The heel of the Captain's palm rocked down onto Angela's clit.

For centuries, nobles and queens and empresses had opened the petals of flower maidens at their fancy. The most regal of pharaohs, the most capricious of duchesses and marquesses, had sipped honey from the same hive Captain Amari dug her hand into. (To Angela, Captain Amari looked every bit the pharaoh, the silver in her hair spilling like a headdress about her strong shoulders.) Of them all—Angela was sure—Captain Amari alone must have had the goodness to do it with a straight face.


End file.
